Divergence
by Emmy-loo
Summary: It is the smallest of decisions that have the greatest impact. Somewhere along the line, something changed. The world will never be the same. Written for The Firm's May prompt challenge.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Written for the prompt accusation, this started out small and kept growing. As you will soon see, the end result has very little to do with the prompt, but it was what started me off. (This is multichaptered, by the way. The next one should be posted by tomorrow at the latest, and after that I'm thinking two more.) Sorry about the delay, and enjoy!

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.**

* * *

The accusation hung in the air like a suffocating fog. All of the air in the room had vanished, and he was finding it difficult to breathe.

_It's all your fault_.

Her eyes stayed on him, hardened by loss and anger. She was the only thing he could see; the background of his brother's kitchen faded, unimportant. Her form seemed outlined by despair and lost hope, with the hard shell of fury protecting her. Her unwavering stare was unapologetic; daring him to contradict.

"Helen..." his voice cracked, and he had to stop and swallow before he could continue. "Helen, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry fixes _nothing_, John." She spat the words out like a poison. Hair unkempt and without makeup, her anger made her look half-deranged. He barely recognized her. "Our son is dead and it's _all your fault_!"

John flinched back from the blow. "I'm so sorry," he echoed, desperately. "I'm sorry." He choked out the words.

"I can't be around you right now." His heart sped up, imagining the worst. But she just turned around, pausing with her hand lingering on the doorjamb. "Good night, John."

She was gone before he could say anything more. John remained at his brother's kitchen table, hands folded. He heard the creak that meant his wife was going up the stairs; the click as she closed the door to Ian's guestroom. John stared at the grain on the table, the cheap wooden thing that his brother had found in someone else's junk. In the echoing silence of his brother's nearly-empty house, he could hear the creaking of the mattress as Helen rolled over again and again.

He didn't rise until the springs stopped squeaking. His ascent of the stairs was quieter than a ghost's. Pausing outside the room that Helen slept in, he imagined that he could hear her light breathing. After a moment he let out a sigh and continued through the hallway. Ian wouldn't mind if he borrowed his bed for a night.

* * *

The next morning, Helen was gone before he even woke up. She had the morning shift, he knew. A part of him was thankful, and he was ashamed.

He flipped his eggs half-heartedly, wondering if this was what it felt like, being in a dying marriage. He had always pitied those poor sods. Now he was one of them, a member of an exclusive club to which no one wanted to belong.

His eggs were rubbery and tasteless, but he didn't notice. Even the routine of eating them brought the memories flooding in, though Ian's house had no toys scattered about, no burp cloths, no empty milk bottles that lay resting on the counter. John saw them anyway, ghosts in his own memory.

He and Alex usually shared breakfast before he had to run to the bank; before the nanny arrived. It had been one of John's favourite times of day. Now it was all he could do not to be sick.

Alex's memory was everywhere. Even with his eyes wide open, he could see spectres of his son gurgling and laughing on the floor, Helen above him, teasing him with a squeaking toy. Or just her hair. Alex loved his mother's hair.

_Had loved._

The thought made John's stomach turn, and suddenly the rubbery eggs were on their way up again. He barely made it to the sink before he was sick.

His son was gone and it was all his fault. John clutched the countertop with his eyes squeezed shut. Alex was dead. A lifetime full of opportunity, snuffed out just like _that_. He would never see Alex's first day of school; never see Alex play football. And it was all his fault. Because John had betrayed Scorpia.

He stiffened, struck by a sprout of an idea struggling to break free. _Scorpia had killed his son_. Slowly, he straightened his back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He absentmindedly turned on the sink, rinsing away the evidence of his shame.

Scorpia had killed his son. He was going to make them pay.

* * *

Cossack shifted on his stomach, uneasy. This was the first time he had been on assignment without Hunter there. He wasn't nervous, exactly, but something about this mission was not sitting well in his stomach. His mind flashed back to a piece of advice Hunter had bestowed on him during training.

_If something feels wrong, it probably is. Trust your gut._

Cossack's conviction in that particular piece of advice was strong. His instincts had served him well in the past—saved his life, even. Still, he bit his tongue. It was probably nothing, he told himself. Just needless worrying over his first solo assignment.

He had not been given a photo of the target. Mrs Rothman had apologized for the inconvenience with her big eyes and low-cut blouse, telling him that the client wanted the target dead as soon as possible and that Scorpia reconnaissance had not yet had the opportunity to photograph him. But she had given him a description—early 30s male, blonde hair, well-built—and an address before sending him off. Cossack had no doubts that he would succeed.

Suddenly, there was movement through the window. Cossack peered through the binoculars and watched a man—presumably his target—bend over the sink and vomit. The corner of Cossack's mouth turned down in distaste. So the man was weak. His apprehension seemed to evaporate as the cold calm he always associated with missions washed over him.

The target hovered over the sink a moment more before straightening. Cossack watched him clean up his mess, waiting for the best angle. He cocked his rifle and adjusted his scope. It would be an easy kill.

His target stepped away from the sink, and Cossack's finger tightened around the trigger. Just one...more...second...

He took the shot the instant the man turned. He imagined he could see the bullet as it spiralled toward the target, making a direct line for the heart. He heard the crack of the glass as the bullet punched its way through, moving with enough velocity to emerge on the other side of the supposedly bulletproof glass. He watched the man jerk with the force of the impact; saw the red of his blood blossoming on his chest.

Cossack felt a modicum of satisfaction. His first solo kill—it had been executed perfectly. But then again, he was not one to make errors.

It took three more seconds for the target's face to register. Cossack stood in a haze, disassembling and bagging his rifle. The blood vanished from his face; his heart was in his throat. The scene played before him again and again, like a movie on his eyelids. He watched the target fall, surprise evident on his familiar face. Cossack—no, _Yassen_—felt ill.

He had just killed John Rider.

* * *

John felt as if he'd been punched by Superman. His chest ached something awful, and blood was gurgling in his throat. He coughed, once, and winced when he saw the blood all over his hands.

He knew he was dying.

Nevertheless, he dragged himself across the floor. If he could just...get to the...phone...

He slumped against the wall, feeling his blood pump out of him at an alarming rate. It was getting harder to breathe—every time he breathed out, no air seemed to want to re-enter his lungs. He didn't dial 999. Instead, he pushed one, hoping that Ian's phone had the same emergency connection that his did.

It only rang once.

"MI6, what is your emergency?"

"Rider." The blood was seeping out of his mouth, making it nearly impossible to speak. Every breath he took seemed to be one of a limited few. "Been shot...at my b-brother's house."

"Where is the injury located?" The operator's voice was coldly efficient.

"C-chest. T-think it might've g-gotten my t-throat too."

"Agent Rider, help is on the way. Stay put; keep breathing as long as you can."

John grunted in affirmation. He barely registered the door opening. He could feel himself slipping away. He didn't fight it. "T-tell Helen I love her. A-and that I'm s-sorry. F-for everything."

He could see a dark shadow hovering above him, coming closer. The phone slipped out of his bloody hands, the plastic casing bouncing on the linoleum tile. He let his head slump to the side and felt his eyes shudder closed.

At least it didn't hurt.


	2. Chapter 2

When Tulip Jones arrived on scene with four specially-trained MI6 paramedics, she jumped to see not one, but two men waiting for her. There was John Rider of course; bleeding out on the floor, but there was a second man, a younger man, who stood calmly above him. As the paramedics went to work, Tulip found herself staring at the second man.

"Hello," he said calmly and clearly, over the noise of the ambulance and the EMT's shouted instructions. "My name is Yassen Gregorovitch. I used to work for Scorpia. I wish to turn myself in."

Tulip sucked in a breath. "You did this?" Her eyes flickered toward the bleeding agent on the floor even as her hand went toward her gun.

He nodded and lifted his hands. "As you can see, I am unarmed." He gestured to the table, where she could see the bulky bag that likely contained his weapon. "I want nothing more to do with Scorpia. I believe I could be of some use to you."

She didn't take her hand off of her gun. "Why?" The word was short, concealing the flare of optimism she felt.

His expression didn't change. "This man was my mentor at Scorpia. I now see that I have been misled as to his true identity, but this does not change the fact that I came to see him as a friend—or the fact that my former superiors intended to force me to kill him. It was a mistake on their part. I have nothing else that ties me to the organization."

Her head was reeling. It was almost too good to be true...If she could convince Blunt to use him as an agent, her career could skyrocket. If this young man could help her take out Scorpia for good...well, she would receive a promotion, to say the least.

She took her hand off of her gun. "You would be willing to work undercover for MI6?"

He nodded. "I desire revenge."

Tulip Jones felt the beginnings of a smile creep across her face. She put her hand out. "I think this is the beginning of a wonderful partnership, Mr Gregorovitch."

* * *

"Helen, can you give Mrs Hanna her codeine? I've got to run down to the ER."

Helen hummed her agreement to Marie and stood, thankful for the distraction. The day was proceeding along horribly. The pitying stares mixed with her crushing guilt had combined to make the morning nearly unbearable.

She did her best to smile for sweet Mrs Hanna, but she suspected the woman knew it was forced. She had been around the hospital long enough to notice the difference. Still, Helen shook off the elderly woman's concerns. It was her job to worry about the patients, not the other way around.

Marie returned from the ER with a frown on her face. That in and of itself wasn't unusual. Marie wasn't a big fan of the emergency room, claiming the gore was too much for her. It was why she had gone into radiology, she said. The way she was looking at Helen out of the corner of her eye, however—her expression troubled—worried her. Helen's heart skipped a beat, her intuition racing. But Marie said nothing. Helen was tempted to go over and shake her, but she couldn't move. Every nerve in her body was screaming at her to _do something_, to find out what was putting that expression on Marie's face.

Something was wrong.

Finally, Marie spit it out. "Helen, isn't your husband called John?"

Helen felt herself nod. "Why?" Her voice was dry.

Marie's tone was sympathetic. "Well, I was just down in the ER. There was a citywide call on the radio for a man called John Rider—but there must be hundreds of John's in London, right? And I might've misheard the surname; the radio didn't have the best reception..."

Helen looked up to Marie, her eyes as wide as those of a deer caught in the headlights. "What was it for?" She could barely choke the words out.

Marie paused, her mouth opening and closing. The air in the room seemed to have disappeared; she couldn't breathe. "Helen," she said finally, confused, "it said he'd been shot."

Helen was on the move before her brain even had time to fully comprehend what Marie had said. _Shot. My husband's been shot. _

In a haze, she grabbed her coat and keys from the nurses' station. Marie's shouted goodbye echoed in her ears: _He's on his way St. Dominic's!_

_The play was okay, Helen thought, but not the best thing she'd ever seen. The dinner afterward, though, that was delicious. John had managed to get a reservation at an upscale Italian place and the food was much better than anything she'd had in a long while. At least since Alex was born—this was the first time they had ever been out without him. To be honest, Helen had been nervous about leaving him with the nanny for the night, but John had pointed out that they did it during the day—Alex loved Karen. And Karen had been more than willing to babysit for the night. After all, she had said, parents needed their time alone._

_She barely registered the sirens. Sirens were nothing new, living in a city as big as London. As they approached their street, though, and the sirens only got louder, she began to frown. _

"_You don't suppose someone's house caught fire, do you?"_

_John frowned and put his arm around her. Their walk was suddenly much more sombre. "I doubt it...maybe old Griffiths had a heart attack or something."_

_Though the both of them thought Griffiths was a snarky old bastard, they gathered no comfort from the words. Hearts beating as one, they began to walk faster._

_They both stopped short when they rounded the corner that would take them home. There were fire trucks and police cars and ambulances and smoke and rubble and debris. It looked like a scene from a nightmare, flakes of ash falling from the sky like enormous grey snowflakes. The sound of the competing sirens made her think of the orchestra of the play they had just left, screeching and whining and making her skin crawl._

_Helen looked desperately at the houses. Numbers three, four, five...but where number six should have stood there was only smouldering empty space and rubble._

_Helen didn't hear herself scream._

_Suddenly she was running. Her heel wedged itself in a crack between the sidewalk pavers, and she jerked it out impatiently, not noticing when it broke. She could feel John next to her, but her eyes were not on him. The carcass of their old home let forth a great puff of smoke, and the firemen started yelling; pushing people back._

"_Alex!" she called, ignoring the acrid smoke in her throat. "Alex!"_

_She turned to the nearest paramedic, who was watching the scene with a frown, and grabbed his arm desperately. "Where is my son? He's very young, only four months, blonde hair..."_

_She could feel the gazes of her neighbours on her as they moved away from the fire and closer to her; could see the sadness in their eyes. She ignored them and stared at the paramedic, an older man with greying hair. He guided her toward the opposite sidewalk, his hand on her arm. She tried forming more words but couldn't find them._

_They stopped on the other side of the road. The paramedic's face was lined and sad. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, miss. No one in the house survived the explosion."_

_She was falling, falling, spinning. Nothing was making sense, and her vision was swirling. Helen saw the sea of pitying faces and the space where her house should have been in the background. Alex was gone. She was teetering on the edge, and at the moment falling seemed inevitable._

_Everything went black._

_When she woke, she was in John's arms. His tears were carving a path down her neck, and she felt like she couldn't breathe._

_She pulled away. "John, it...it can't—it _can't_—be true. I want to see my baby."_

_He didn't move his lips, but his eyes said everything. Helen heard herself cry out. She clutched John, her fingernails digging into him. His warm arms were around her; not squeezing the life out of her, but rather, keeping it in. Without him, she would float away. She was never going to let go. He was her rock; the only steady element in a sea out to drown her._

_Her baby was gone._

* * *

Helen found herself at St Dominic's with no memory of how she got there. Instead of London's busy roads, the image of an empty space filled her vision—the gap of where her house should have been. In a flurry, she was in the lobby, the soothing light jazz and light blue paint doing absolutely nothing for her.

The poor receptionist didn't stand a chance.

"Where's my husband?" she demanded. "John Rider...he arrived in an ambulance?"

"And who might you be?"

Helen narrowed her eyes. This young woman—all plastic, with fake, blonde, hairsprayed hair and too-big breasts—was giving her a sickly sweet smile.

"His wife. Now, where is he?"

She typed something into the computer, fake nails clicking loudly on the keys. She frowned, a crease appearing in her forehead. "I'm sorry. But it appears that his location is classified for the time being...."

Helen leaned over the desk. Her voice was low and calm. "Where. Is. My. Husband." It wasn't a question.

The woman paled and looked toward the waiting area. Their conversation was starting to garner attention. "He's in surgery," she squeaked. "On the third floor. Theatre 4."

Helen gave the receptionist a sickly smile of her own before spinning for the stairs. _In surgery_. She felt as if her stomach had dropped out of her and onto the floor. There was only one thought in her mind as she sprinted up the stairs, ignoring the startled looks of the doctor's nursing their coffee and hiding in the stairwell.

_I can't lose them both._


	3. Chapter 3

I'm thinking another two chapters after this.

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.**

* * *

"Mr Gregorovitch, here are the papers. We have agreed not to persecute you for past crimes. In exchange, you agree to a five-year tenure with us and formally renounce your ties with Scorpia. Of course, you also agree to go undercover back in Scorpia as if nothing has gone amiss, to assist us in the dismantling of the organization."

Yassen took the grey man's pen and signed without fanfare.

The terms were agreeable enough. And a small part of him—a part so small that he had been surprised to discover that it even existed—was satisfied. He was finally on the right side.

The woman—Jones, he thought—spoke up from her seat next to him. "Sir, when should he leave?"

The man pushed his square-framed glasses back up his nose. "As soon as possible. Scorpia cannot—_must _not—suspect a thing. Take him down to Smithers and then escort him to the briefing room. After that, he's on his own."

Jones nodded and stood. Yassen parroted her and followed the woman down several flights of stairs—ignoring the confused stares that they attracted—at which point they caught an elevator.

Yassen stood with his hands folded and stared straight ahead, ignoring the other man in the elevator. Some unknown emotion flickered across his face, and Yassen wondered briefly if the agent had recognized him. The thought brought an unexpected flare of pleasure. People already knew who he was.

The man's eyes darted down to Yassen's hands, as if he expected an attack. "Jones," he ventured, "what is _he_ doing in our elevator?"

Jones, who had been watching the exchange with a sort of patronising amusement, smiled briefly. "None of your business, Crawley. I assure you that you'll find out soon enough."

With that, the elevator arrived softly at its stop. It made no noise. Yassen gestured for Jones to go first, which she did. The elevator door started to close softly behind them. Yassen turned and gave Crawley a slow and feral grin, enjoying the look on his face as the blood seemed to vanish from it.

In front of him, Jones looked to be hiding a grin. "Come on. We've got to see Smithers."

-:-

John woke suddenly. It took him several seconds to register the gentle beeps of a heart monitor, and several more to remember what had happened. He turned his head, his eyelids half shut, and saw that someone was holding his hand.

_Helen_. His heart beat painfully. She was asleep, her head resting on his bed. Even in dreams she looked tired, pained. He ran his thumb over her fingers.

It seemed that getting shot was a good way to end marital spats. He would have to remember that. The thought—it sounded like something Ian would say—made him snort. The movement seemed to irritate his chest, though, so he calmed down. Wouldn't do to break stitches or anything of that sort.

Next to him, Helen stirred. He ran his thumb over her fingers again; watching as she gradually opened her eyes and blinked the sleep out of them.

"John! You're awake!"

Suddenly she was crawling into the small hospital bed next to him, doing her best to squeeze between him and the bars. He scooted over to the opposite side, making room and smiling.

She turned her head to him. Her eyes seemed bigger; coated with unshed tears. "John, forgive me. I was wrong to say that to you. It's not true."

He leaned to give her a kiss. The angle made it sort of difficult, but he managed. "I already have. I love you."

She squeezed his hand. "Really, John. I'm so sorry. I...I just couldn't let things end like that. Thinking that the last words we had together could have been a fight...." She took a deep and trembling breath before burrowing her face into his shoulder. "I already lost Alex. I can't lose you too."

John put an arm around his wife, her tears spotting his hospital gown. He had to swallow before he could speak. "Helen." His voice was low, and he could feel his chest vibrating underneath her. "Those bastards don't stand a chance. I'm going to find who did this to us, and I'm going to kill them."

Helen stiffened next to him. It seemed like a very long time before she said anything. Finally, though, she responded. Her voice was soft, but John could detect an undertone of steel. "Whatever you do, John, be careful. I_ can't lose you_."

-:-

He and Jones had not spoken since his briefing, but Yassen had a feeling that told him where they were headed—and it wasn't the airport.

It wasn't long before they pulled up to a hospital, which, Yassen noted, seemed a good deal nicer than the rest in London. He wasn't surprised. Only the best for government employees, after all.

He wasn't nervous. His palms were a bit sweaty, yes. But he wasn't nervous.

Jones only had to flash a badge at the receptionist before the woman stammered out a room number. And then they were in another elevator, this one graciously empty. Jones started speaking, keeping her eyes on the panel of buttons.

"I'm going to ask you stay outside while I explain the situation. It will be easier for him to take that way, I think."

Yassen nodded. The two stood in silence until a question forced its way past his lips. "Why are you doing this?"

She kept her eyes straight ahead. "This man is the reason you changed sides. I thought you deserved the chance to speak with him before you left."

_To apologize_, Yassen thought briefly. _To tell him the truth. _However surprising, he welcomed the opportunity.

They emerged from the elevator onto a deserted hallway. After a few twisting turns, they found themselves facing a single room—413. Two burly men in suits stood on either side of the door, equipped with earpieces and the telltale bulge of guns.

Yassen stopped several feet before the door. Jones turned to him, her eyes questioning. He nodded, answering the unspoken query.

He was ready.

Jones pursed her lips and took a deep breath, flashing her badge at the guards before leaning close and whispering to them. Yassen could see the eyes of one of the guards flick toward him uneasily. Jones huffed and barked something out—from where he stood, it sounded like "get over it"—and the guards both frowned, but relaxed.

He watched her disappear into the room, closing the door softly behind her before he could see anything more than the foot of the bed. The guards never took their eyes off of him as he stood opposite them, hands locked behind his back.

Yassen could hear faint murmurings from behind the door, but he didn't strain his ears. He saw the taller guard with the clean-shaven head gesture to his partner down the hallway. Yassen let his eyes drift over to where they were pointing, and was surprised to see a man, walking toward them with a slight limp. He frowned as the man approached them, recognizing him.

It struck him quickly, and for the first time in recent memory, he could think of nothing to do; no action that would prevent the confrontation that was sure now to come. There was nowhere to hide, and any attempts to run would attract far too much attention. So instead he stood as still and silent as a statue, hoping that he would go unrecognized.

But it was not to be. The man from Malta flicked his eyes once, briefly, at the guards before turning to Yassen. For a moment he stood, just blinking. Then his mouth closed with a snap and he was rushing forward, his eyes mad. A primal sound escaped his throat as he and Yassen collided.

The man was surprisingly strong for looking so lanky; getting a punch to his shoulder, but it wasn't difficult for Yassen to quickly gain the upper hand. The man from Malta aimed a fist at his face, but Yassen grabbed it before it could do any damage and spun the man so that his arms were trapped behind his back.

"Let me go, you slimy bastard!" He writhed, but Yassen did not loosen his grip. The guards finally approached, grim-faced.

"Howell," said the one without hair, "he's with us. Stop struggling or I'll have to report this."

"Oh, I think it's getting reported." The sudden voice was loud and terse. It reminded him of a scolding parent. Yassen turned his head to see Jones standing in the doorway, her expression livid. She marched over to where Yassen held the man from Malta—Howell, presumably—and wrenched Yassen's arms off of him. He did not fight her.

Howell looked like a surly teenager in front of Jones, though she surely could not have been much older than he was.

"Howell, what the hell was that?"

"This is the one that _stabbed_ me, _Tulip_. Forgive me for acting _logically_."

Jones—_Tulip?_—reached out an arm and cuffed his ear. "Ash, stop being an idiot for a moment and consider the situation. He was bloody _standing_ there, with two of our own _right across from him_. Is it possible for you to just _think_ for a moment?"

The frown did not leave Howell's face as he rubbed his ear. "So he's a turncoat, then?" He glared at Yassen, who gazed back coolly in response.

Jones let out a huff of air. "He's on our side now, yes. And I would appreciate it if you didn't go around _attacking_ one of our greatest assets, thank you very much." She paused, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. "And aren't you supposed to be in a bed of your own right now?" she asked suddenly.

Howell looked suddenly guilty. "I heard about John. I wanted to make sure he was okay."

Jones glared at him again before turning to one of the guards. "Escort Agent Howell back to his room, if you will? He can come back when he's _allowed out of bed_." She directed her final words to Howell, who had resumed his glare. "I mean it, Ash. You need those wounds to heal."

No one spoke until they had disappeared down the hall. Jones closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Yassen watched Howell leave with interest. "These wounds...are they ones that I caused on Malta?"

Jones didn't open her eyes. "Yes, they are from where you stabbed him."

She let out a gust of air and took a long pause. "He shouldn't have found out about you," she finally said, shaking her head. "It was a mistake telling him. Something has been...off with Agent Howell ever since his return."

"You do not trust him?"

She took another long pause. "I can't know for sure. But I've got a feeling."

He nodded, and she straightened. "All right," she said, seemingly collecting herself. "All right. It's time to do what we came for. Are you ready?"

Yassen nodded, not trusting his voice. Jones led him to the door and paused with her hand on the knob.

"Good luck," she said finally.

With that, Yassen entered John Rider's hospital room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.**

* * *

The guard watched in a sort of horrible fascination as his boss cooed over the mahogany and rosewood cradle. Fit for a little prince, she had said. The guard shivered. Rothman was frightening enough when she was doling out orders to murder or steal. Watching her face fill with something that looked suspiciously like _love_ was more than a little disconcerting.

He made his face carefully blank as she stood, the maternal smile fading from her face. By the time she turned to her guest, her expression was as he remembered it—calculating and cold.

"I trust that this will remain our secret."

The dark man nodded, leaning heavily on his cane though he looked to be quite young. "As I trust that you will use the information I have divulged."

Another smile spread across Rothman's face, this one decidedly more sinister. "Absolutely. Scorpia does not take kindly to traitors. It goes without saying that he will be killed."

The dark man nodded once, satisfied. "And Jo—Rider? What will you do with him?"

Her head turned sharply to him. "He is a traitor as well, my little spy. He will be dealt with accordingly."

The guard couldn't see the dark man's face in the flickering firelight, but when he spoke his voice was quiet. "If I could ask one favor?"

Rothman sat between the fire and the cradle, rocking the latter absentmindedly. Her face seemed to glow in the light, illuminating her dark red lips and even darker eyes. One eyebrow lifted.

It took the dark man another moment to speak. "Please—spare Helen?"

Rothman looked away, one hand still on the cradle that the guard knew contained this woman Helen's son.

"Perhaps," was all she said.

* * *

Helen sat stiffly in the uncomfortable hospital chair, watching emotions flash across her husband's face before he suppressed them—unconsciously, she supposed. In his line of work you couldn't afford to be read like an open book.

The young man that entered the room moments later wasn't at all what she had been expecting. Truthfully, she wasn't even sure what she _had_ been expecting. But this young, blond, attractive man wasn't it.

Neither of the two men made a sound until Gregorovitch—Yassen—Cossack—pulled the other chair out of the corner. He seemed to be unable to stop himself from watching John, who was staring at him with the same intent. Neither of them seemed to notice her, though she knew they both had.

After a moment, John cleared his throat. "Cossack."

Cossack nodded. "Hunter."

Helen frowned. "If I may…" she began, trying her hardest to keep her voice from wavering.

The two men looked in her direction with raised eyebrows. It struck Helen suddenly that they could have been brothers; the two blond, blue-eyed men. It seemed that Gregorovitch even had some of the same mannerisms as her husband.

"I don't think you should refer to one another by the code names you used at Scorpia. You want to move past that stage in your life. Neither of you needs to pretend any more."

John nodded slowly, and Helen watched Gregorovitch's eyes on her husband. "Very well." He spoke with only a hint of an accent. "Hello, John."

John's sudden grin broke the mounting silence. "Yassen, mate, it _is _good to see you. How have you been?"

Yassen seemed to falter. Helen got the impression that this young man was not used to losing his calm. But she didn't blame him in the slightest. This was a situation beyond the normal.

"I have been…well, under the circumstances."

John's grin tightened. He sighed. "I wanted to tell you," he said, voice low. "But…it just couldn't be done."

Yassen nodded once. "I understand. It is not _my _well-being we should be curious about, in any case."

The unspoken question lingered in the air.

"I should be fine soon, the doctors are saying."

Yassen nodded again, and Helen—who was no spy, simply a mother—could see some of the tension leave his shoulders.

"I apologise," the young man began. "I suppose Rothman thought it would be…entertaining to send me out without informing as to the target's identity."

John's face darkened. "I knew there was a reason I didn't like her." He gripped Helen's hand.

Yassen spoke again, his eyes wandering around the small room. "But I seem to remember stories, Hunt—John—of a son. Is he well?"

Helen felt her chin wobble and her eyes began to burn. "Excuse me," she said, standing. She was lucky that John's room had a private loo—it meant she wouldn't need to go into the halls, where the pity would suffocate her. She could feel their eyes on her back even as the tears started to drip.

Her baby was gone. Every time she thought she understood that; thought she might be able to accept it, the knowledge returned to smack her in the face, bringing along the same burning pain as the night of his death.

It hadn't gotten any easier.

Her heart ached for him in a way that made her feel ill. Every new tear felt like the first. A sudden procession of images popped into her head—Alex at three, sleeping on John's lap; Alex at seven, playing his first real game of football and winning; Alex at twelve, getting an award for the best science project; Alex at fourteen, going on his first date; Alex at eighteen, getting ready to depart for university and giving her a small, sad kiss.

She would never get any of it.

She had to fight back a wail; instead settled for a small sob, muffled with her hands. She felt herself biting her fingers, as if a physical release would stop the emotional pain. Helen didn't hear the door open, but she could sense someone entering.

Yassen stood at the doorway, looking completely lost. "John…John said that he would get out to speak with you himself, but he thinks that the doctor might add another ten days onto his stay if he did so. Could…could I do anything for you?"

Helen waved him off, not looking up. "No, n-no, j-just leave m-me here. I'll b-be f-f-fine." A fresh wave of sobs flooded through her.

Would Alex and Yassen have been friends, she wondered? Yassen could have been an uncle, or perhaps a much-older brother. What had her boy missed out on?

She felt Yassen sit next to her and willed him away. He made no attempt to comfort her physically, but after a moment he began speaking.

"My mother and father both died when I was small. For years, I blamed it on myself, though I see the futility in that argument now. I thought that living with their deaths would grow easier with time—and it does. Only not in the way that I expected." Here he paused, listened to Helen sniffing for a moment, and unrolled a wad of toilet paper to hand to her.

She took it gratefully as he continued. "Time did not numb the wound, but it gave me _new_ memories as a sort of…bandage, I guess." He suddenly looked embarrassed—the most relatable emotion she'd yet seen cross his face. When he resumed speaking, it was in a lower tone. "To be honest, your husband was a…great help when I first began training. He was like an older brother to me, and soon I could see more happiness in my life."

He stood. "I know that you do not want advice, so I will not try to give it to you. I can only offer you my most sincere condolences for the loss of your son." Here his eyes gained a faraway quality. "I believe I should have liked to meet him."

* * *

When Helen emerged from the loo several minutes later, after having splashed water on her face and wiped the tear marks from her cheeks, the two men were deep in conversation. Her husband had the rolling desk placed over his chest, and was drawing on a napkin. Yassen was watching intently, pointing at the diagram every few moments. A nervous shudder stole through Helen. She wasn't dense—she knew what they were planning.

That didn't mean she had to like it.

Yassen's eyes flicked to her as she returned, and he paused in his speech. John gave him a tired smile. "Go on. We needn't hide anything from Helen."

Helen sat in the chair by the rain-streaked window, only vaguely listening as they plotted the downfall of the organization that had taken so much from them. The two men never raised their voices, but Helen detected every now and then a tense quality to their words. They seemed to be disagreeing about something.

A sharp noise startled her sometime later from a sort of half-sleep, and she straightened, blinking. John and Gregorovitch had stopped speaking to watch the Jones woman enter the room. Helen turned her head groggily to the door.

Jones was standing ramrod straight, observing the room with interest. "Gregorovitch, are you ready?"

The younger man nodded once. Her husband's mouth was tight, a sure sign that he was displeased about something or another. Yassen stood in a fluid motion and walked toward Jones. He turned back to John briefly, and the two seemed to have a wordless conversation. Then his gaze fell on Helen. She forced a smile at him, and he nodded.

Then, to Jones: "It is time."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider. **

**AN: I have excuses, but instead of boring you with them, I'll just give you the chapter instead. xD  
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Yassen hated being uncertain. It was an emotion he associated with weakness. A well-prepared assassin was always certain. Certain about the parameters of the mission, certain about the target; certain about whether or not he would succeed. _Uncertainty _was a sign of ill preparation.

And yet, there was very little that he could do to prepare for the downfall of Scorpia.

He sat in his tiny flat, flicking his pocketknife in and out. The lights were off. A small duffel bag sat across from him, packed with the things he was expected to have. His guns, primarily, but also false identification and enough money to bribe the Prime Minister. He could not bring anything else. MI6 had been eager to equip him with gadgets, but Yassen refused. His contact would be suspicious of additional explosives hidden in his bag.

And he would be a sorry excuse for an assassin if he could not kill Julia Rothman.

As if the contact had heard Yassen's thoughts, he knocked on the door. Yassen stood, his face carefully blank. He unlocked the door to see a nondescript man standing there, dressed in a chauffeur's uniform. A wolf in sheep's clothing, Yassen thought wryly. This man could kill him hundreds of different ways without even using a knife.

Yassen nodded at him and went back into his kitchen, retrieving his duffel. Neither of the men spoke.

The car they sent was a beautiful thing, sleek, black and long. Yassen sat in the back. He leaned his head against the soft leather. It was a long journey. He might as well get rest while he could.

* * *

They arrived in Italy at sunrise, the golden light making everything seem to glow. Yassen departed the plane with squinted eyes, automatically scanning his surroundings. Julia Rothman stood on the tarmac, a blue sundress whipping around her in the wind, and an enormous white hat perched atop her head. Yassen tensed imperceptibly. If Rothman was here, then something was wrong.

"Yassen, my dear!" She embraced him warmly when he approached her. His arms were trapped stiffly at his sides. "How was England?"

"Acceptable. Rainy."

She nodded, wearing a smile. "The miserable place usually is. Now, I got your message. The target was eliminated successfully?"

"Yes. He was rushed to the hospital, but they pronounced him dead on arrival. I checked, just to be sure. He is dead." Yassen thought of John, holed up in a hospital room, healing from a wound that Yassen had inflicted. His eyes had been lined when Yassen left, looking older than his years.

Rothman seemed to be inspecting him with her eyes, her lips pursed. Yassen allowed his body to show his discomfort. After all, he had supposedly eliminated his mentor.

Seemingly satisfied, Rothman smiled again. "I knew I could count on you, Yassen." She wrapped an arm around his waist. After a moment's pause, he lifted his arm so that it was curled around her shoulder. Her body was warm against his.

They walked toward a Rolls Royce, Rothman's personal vehicle. She slid in first, her thin blue sundress sliding up to reveal her thigh. Yassen gritted his teeth and followed, pushing his duffel bag in between them.

Julia chittered about nothing of consequence as they drove to the marina. She was excited to have him back.

"You are one of our best students, after all, Yassen. It hasn't been quite the same without you in class."

They held hands as they boarded the yacht, just another obscenely rich couple on a cruise of the Riviera. Not that it mattered. There was almost no one around, just the bakers and the paperboys. The chauffeur took Yassen's bag and stowed it for him.

He and Julia strolled on the deck, watching the sun climb higher into the sky. Her sundress fluttered in the wind. The water glittered, as if diamonds were sewn into the water's surface. Julia seemed very happy. Disturbingly happy. Something had gone right for her, and that was likely bad news for Yassen. A sense of dread began to build in his chest.

What did she know?

He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on appearing carefree. Rothman couldn't know that he had switched sides. He played along with her blithe performance, smiling in all of the right places.

The journey to Malagosto was short, and within twenty minutes the island had appeared. His fingers itched in eagerness. He couldn't wait to set the tiny island on fire. Yassen wasn't sure when he had stopped thinking of the compound as home, but now he was eager to destroy it.

Once off the yacht, Julia was all business. "There's a dinner party tonight, Yassen. Formal wear. I expect you to attend." The fluttery woman was gone for the shortest of seconds, replaced by the woman Yassen expected: made of steel, and used to getting what she wanted.

He nodded. "Of course. I look forward to seeing you there."

It would have to be tonight. He would have to take Scorpia down tonight. If Rothman wanted a spectacle, then that was what she would get.

She smiled. "Excellent!" She planted a kiss on his cheek, lingering for a second longer than was necessary. "It should be quite a show."

A cabin boy appeared with Yassen's bag as Rothman walked down the gangplank, her hips swaying and her dress rippling. Yassen waited until she was gone, disappeared into the thin trees, to depart the boat. He had very little time.

* * *

Yassen straightened his tie—a ridiculous gold thing that Julia loved—and gave himself a final once-over. His hair was combed. His suit was pressed to perfection. His shoes were so polished that he could see his reflection. His knives rested comfortably against his forearms and his gun was a reassuring weight on his ankle. He was ready.

Yassen knew that he had very little chance at success. MI6 hadn't been able to procure SAS reinforcements, so there would be no ambush. He would just have to take down as many people as he could before he was killed. Preferably Julia first.

The dining hall had been transformed from a functional space into a completely unnecessary one. Silver and gold tinsel glittered from the ceiling, and a large space had been cleared for a dance floor. Carefully crafted ice sculptures dotted every table—of swans, of herons, of other such nonsense. Yassen held back a frown. He hated dinner parties. But he had more important things to worry about.

He heard Julia before he could see her. Her heels clicked on the dark wood floor. He saw her, and was momentarily stunned. She wore a floor length dress of twinkling red, cut with a very high slit on her left side. Flashes of her creamy white thigh appeared as she walked. Yassen could see men drooling behind her as she approached him, ignoring their cookie-cutter blonde trophy wives in favor of the brunette Rothman. Her hair was in loose waves, framing her heart-shaped face. A diamond encrusted pin held back her fringe.

"Hello, Yassen. You look quite dashing." Rothman's smile was warm, and for a moment Yassen wondered if she actually knew the truth after all. He nearly shook himself. He couldn't be deceived. Behind her amiable facade, there was a woman who killed men for a living. A woman who had ordered him to kill Hunter.

"You look stunning yourself, Julia." The words sounded forced, but she laughed and took his arm.

"Oh, this old thing? I'm glad you like it. You are, after all, the guest of honor."

That confirmed his suspicions. Julia knew that John wasn't dead. She knew that Yassen was a turncoat. And she wanted to make a show of it. He would wait no longer. A quiet _snick_, and a knife slid out from his shirtsleeves.

Julia had a knife sticking out of her chest before she even opened her mouth. The red of her blood blended with the color of her ruby-red dress, and she fell heavily to the floor. Blood gurgled in her mouth. "Get him!" she exclaimed. Blood trickled from her mouth, but the woman was not quite dead. Yassen wasn't worried. She would fall soon.

Yassen stood calmly. The men here weren't assassins. They were Rothman's clients, the ones who paid her such extravagant wages to eliminate those who disagreed with them. They flailed around like dead fish, their wives clinging to them and screaming. But he recognized the man rushing toward him, his face stormy with anger. Major Yu. He had something of a crush on Julia. Yassen unstrapped his ankle holster, and had three bullets in the man before he was even close enough to swipe at Yassen.

It was harder to eliminate the guards. He saw two fall with a sense of immediate satisfaction, but the supply of them seemed limitless. Yassen shot, and watched as more fell, clutching at themselves. No matter how many he shot down, more and more appeared, flooding through every entrance. The gun ran out of bullets, and Yassen threw it to the floor, removing his other knife. The guards were still shooting. He ducked behind a table, and heard a bullet shatter the ice sculpture that had decorated it.

He needed to escape. He waited for a lull in the bullets—why Scorpia hired these idiots as permanent guards, he would never know—and then made a run for it.

The kitchen was open. The staff screamed in terror as he plunged through, hiding behind pots and knives. He knocked over a pot of something steaming, hearing it hiss as it hit the floor. He threw open the supply door, feeling open air hit his face with something akin to relief.

The moon stared accusingly down at him as he made his escape. He heard the shouts of guards following him. It was easy for him to get lost in the darkness of the trees, headed toward the boat launch.

The guard at the boathouse was dead, a knife through his throat, before he even knew that Yassen was there. Yassen pulled a set of keys from the hook, noting the name engraved on them. For an organization made up of people who killed others for a living, the security was remarkably lax.

He stumbled along the dock until he found the boat he sought—coincidentally, the _Helen of Troy_. As he sped back toward the mainland, sea spray hitting his face and crumpling his tux, he couldn't help but let a smile escape. He hadn't destroyed Scorpia. But he had killed Julia Rothman. And he would be back.

* * *

On the island, in a room painted powder blue, curled in a mahogany and rosewood cradle, a baby began to stir. Julia Rothman, still bleeding but very much alive, picked him up and cradled him to her chest. She ignored the doctors behind her, who were almost twitching in impatience to get her into the hospital. A dark man stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on a cane. His face was pained.

"Darling little Alex," she cooed. "We are going to get along quite well, I think."

She put the baby gently back into the cradle. In the dimly lit room, the shadows on Rothman's face were highlighted. She had the look of a lunatic. Ignoring the men who grabbed at her elbows, hoping to assist her, she turned and walked very slowly out of the room.

In the room painted powder blue, curled in a mahogany and rosewood cradle, little baby Alex Rider began to cry.

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**AN: Despite the fact that I know better, I am planning a sequel for this. Alex has grown up in Scorpia, with Julia Rothman pretending to be his mother. His entire world shatters when he finds out that it isn't true. If you're interested in reading something like that, please let me know in a review. I hope you enjoyed the story!**


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